The Effects of Inertia
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Traffic's at a stand still. Sam defends a Prius. And Dean just wants snacks. No spoilers, no slash (of course). Just some humorous brotherly squabbling. For Mythopoeia. Rated for a tad more language than usual, but nothing terrible.


**A/N: This is for Mythopoeia, who gave me some delightful little prompt snippets for this-and who is pretty much the best writer I've ever encountered (seriously, check our her "Confabulation" story for ****_Supernatural-_****you will weep). This is a rather paltry effort in comparison, but I hope that it is an enjoyable read.**

**Set sometime in Season 1 or 2. No spoilers.**

**Please review? **

**Disclaimer: Nothing but the feels, friends.**

The Impala's engine grumbles to a discontented standstill, and Sam shuts his eyes.

It's futile, he knows, but for a few seconds at least he can postpone acknowledging the inevitable calamity.

That is, a traffic jam.

The engine sputters disagreeably, and Dean leans forward, patting her (_it's_, Sam self-corrects, cursing his brother's anthropomorphizing influence…_it's a_ _car, dammit_) dashboard affectionately.

"I know, Baby," Dean murmurs, brow furrowing. "Freaking traffic. It's downright insulting."

Sam heaves a silent sigh. Here it goes…

It's a long-established fact, in Winchester family history, that Dean _hates_ to be still (or at least, to be compelled to be still). He's a restless sleeper, an unrepentant anarchist when it comes to cutting in line, and as for traffic—well, Sam may have gone to Stanford but even he hasn't found the right word to describe this particular state of hell-on-earth.

Dean tilts his head back and glares rather dramatically upwards, as though _this_ momentary inconvenience is the final straw to be added to the burdens upon a nature only he would describe as patient.

"Just a little Memorial Day Weekend congestion," Sam notes mildly.

He's not sure why he thought that would help, because it doesn't. Dean just shoots him an irritable look. "Sam, Baby wasn't made to be blocked in by a Toyota Camrie and whatever the hell _that_ is."

"It's a Prius," Sam supplies, almost automatically. They weren't an uncommon sight at Stanford.

Dean's lip curls in disgust. "You're telling me that half-assed excuse for a car is actually named _Pris?_"

"Pri-_us_—two syllables." They've been stuck here for what-three minutes?-and Sam can already feel his own patience wearing thin. "It's a highly energy efficient vehicle."

"Whatever, dude. Thing looks like a freaking egg."

Sam assumes what he knows Dean refers to as the "bitchface". "Man, just..."

"Speaking of snacks," Dean interrupts, "I'm hungry."

They had not, in fact, been speaking of them, and Sam feels compelled to point this out.

Dean looks at him like he's the crazy one. "Uh...weird egg-shaped car-eggs-food-snacks-I'm hungry. How did you not follow that?"

"Wow." Sam shakes his head. "The way your mind works."

"It's pretty incredible, right?" Dean flashes a grin.

"If by incredible you mean, 'not to be believed because of its incompatibility with basic logic,' then, yes."

"Shut up, smart-ass. Just grab me the chips."

"You grab them! It's not like you're driving, at the moment." Mentioning the traffic situation is kind of a low blow, Sam guesses, but the Prius remark is still rankling. His buddy Eric had one, and it's kind of a loyalty thing.

"Sammy," Dean says, in his best wheedling voice, "_You're_ the one with the freakishly long gorilla arms, so that's why you have to get stuff from the back seat."

Dean needs to work on his flattery skills. Sam says firmly, "I can't."

No more coaxing. "Sam, get me my damn Doritos."

"I _can't_," Sam repeats, and the look of shocked incomprehension on his brother's face would be amusing if Sam wasn't toying with death.

"I'm sorry, how is this funny?" Dean growls, and Sam shrugs helplessly.

"Dude, I'm not trying to be a jerk here. I honestly cannot reach your chips."

"Why in the hell not?"

"Because...because you've been really jamming on the junk food, so I stuck it in the trunk. Out of sight out of mind?" It ends in rather a tentative question, because it had seemed like a wise and psychologically sophisticated idea at the time, but now it just seems...foolish. And dangerous, judging from the furious look sparking through Dean's eyes.

"You freaking decided to regulate my eating habits?" His brother slams a hand against the steering wheel, obviously pissed, and Sam folds himself up as best he can. Six-foot-four's no friend to shrinking.

"It was..."

"It was a damned stupid idea, is what it was! Out of sight out of _mind?_ Dude, we left Denver behind three hours ago, but I still ain't forgotten that waitress...or the way she-"

Sam elbows him to make him shut up, because Dean's methods of verbal retaliation usually involve a healthy dose of _TMI_. "Look, man, I'm sorry. At least your abs will thank me."

Dean's jaw drops and in the back of his mind Sam wonders if he's maybe gone too far this time. "_My_ abs? You mean this freakin' granite six-pack that you cry yourself to sleep every night wishing you had?"

"Trans fats and carbs are basically the core of your diet, Dean."

"I have a lightning fast metabolism."

"You wouldn't have to work out so much."

"I _like_ working out."

"Alright, alright. I didn't mean to insult your girlish figure."

"I _will_ punch you in the teeth."

"Don't break a nail."

"Look who's talking? If you blow-dried your hair, you'd look like Farrah Fawcett."

Sam tugs at his bangs. "That was low."

Dean glares daggers at him. "For real?"

"Ok," Sam murmurs apologetically. Apparently Dean's not the only one who gets antsy. "I guess I deserved that. But my point stands, Dean. You can live without snacks for a few-"

Dean's fingers curl around the worn steering wheel. "Man, you can go get a freakin' Pris-Pris, and fill the whole damn thing with that dried seaweed crap you like, but this is _Baby_, and here we eat our trans-fats and whatever the hell else like _men._ We cool?"

"Um…Dean?"

"What?"

"Traffic is moving again."

The engine roars into motion as Dean floors the gas, and Sam jolts forward, remembering suddenly that he disposed of a half-empty Cheetos bag at the last gas station.

He hasn't mentioned that.

It's likely for the best.


End file.
